Tomorrow, you will wake up in a body that is not quite yours. It is older and fatter than you remember. When you look at the calendar, it is 18 years from your current time. The house you came to is big, unlike that old apartment you grew up in, a three-story building complete with white picket fences in an upper middle income suburb. The marker ink staining your left arm reads: Should I choose abberton high over fernvale high? Scrawled in the untidy script of a pre-teen. 

You remember dinner time shouting matches with your parents about that decision. They want you to secure a better education to secure a good job to secure a good life. You might have slammed your bedroom door and sulked for a week, but you chose Abberton in the end. It was tough, joining as a newcomer. The people were cliquey and cold. To acquire accolades, anything was fair game. In this cut-throat place you shriveled up and died. It might have even been the start of your emotional stunting. Before you realise, the frost seeped into your heart and grew into walls of ice. Today, you are alone. Conventionally successful though you may be, you still crave a decent relationship with another human being.  

You find a marker, just for the occasion, and scribble back: Don't choose Abberton because you'll be lonely. 

 

 

Tomorrow, you will wake up in a body that is not quite yours. It is older and fatter than you remember. When you look at the calendar, it is 18 years from your current time. The house you came to is small like your old family apartment, two bedrooms and a tiny kitchenette. The marker ink staining your left arm reads: Should I choose abberton high over fernvale high? Scrawled in the untidy script of a pre-teen.  

You picked Fernvale because your friends went there. Your parents would have never approved of course, but what they don't know won't hurt them. You kept these friends, only to find that they have turned into questionable people. Being young and stupid, you followed them anyway. Now you find yourself at a dead end, living paycheck to paycheck. It chips your pride to know that you had squandered your youthful intelligence away. If only you had chosen something else, if only..., if only.

You pick up a marker on the kitchenette, placed in quick access. This is not the first time a question appeared on your arm, after all. You scribble back: Don't choose Fernvale because you'll regret it.

 

 

Tomorrow, you will wake up in a body that is not quite yours. It is older and thinner than you remember. When you look at the calendar, it is 25 years from your current time. The words on your arm read: Should I audition for the school play? 

You write: No, you will embarrass yourself and never recover. The humiliation still burns like an old scar.

Somewhere and someplace else, you write: Yes, it will be an unforgettable experience. The yellowed photograph of that first curtain call still sits in your photo album, along with other photos with other crews from a career of plays. 

 

 

Tomorrow, you will wake up in a body that is not quite yours. The words on your arm read: Should I learn to code?

You write: Yes, it will change your life.

You write: No, you will hate yourself. 

 

 

The words on your arm read: Should I ask Jesse out? 

You write: Don't do it.

You write: Shoot your shot!

 

 

 

 

Yes, no, yes, no, no no yes yes no. The mess of answers you receive makes your head spin. 

 

Tomorrow, you will wake up in a house that is not yours. It is not yours because it is your parent's house, and this is your room, half a lifetime ago. The room is a mess like how it always is – you do try, but the clothes and things just keep spilling out without you meaning to. Beatrice always chided you about that. Today, there is a freshly pressed three-piece suit on your bed. It is old but rarely used, something that you have seen on your parent's wedding photo, and at your school play. It's yours now. 

You look into the mirror: it's you, young and rosy-cheeked. It's the youngest and oldest that you've ever been. 

Later, you will wait at the end of the makeshift aisle in the garden of your relative's house. The woman clad in white will glide past the roses like a god. With your trembling hands, you will receive her like one. She'll giggle softly and thread her warm fingers between your clammy ones, her voice like tinkling bells. You will say your vows with Beatrice and kiss under the great oak tree.  

Later still, you will spend your life with her. She will be a soothing balm on days where you return with wounds in your mind and scars in your heart. A comfort at the end of a long day, as you are for her. Something nice back home. 

You will have two children, and being the little tykes that they are, they will be the death of you. You love her, love them, so so much. Life is beautiful. You will be happy. So impossibly happy.

 

 

The illness that follows will be a tsunami, quick and devastating. You will see Beatrice wither away before your eyes, day after day after day. At her deathbed, she will clasp her thin hands gently over yours. She is smiling, pale lips and hollowed cheeks. Your heart will be torn asunder when she leaves.

The days after that will be a dull blur. You will be strung along by the rites of the funeral. Many will come to say their condolences and it wouldn't mean a thing. It will feel like your blood has been drained from your body, leaving you hollow and lightheaded. The months after that will be numb. The kids won't stop crying. 

It will hurt, for a long long time. She haunts the world around you — a glimpse of her ghost in your bedroom, food that tastes too much like how she cooked. You'll see her eyes and her smile in your children. Your thoughts will drift to her unbidden. 

 

 

For now though, you'll have to make a choice. There is something that your younger self needs to know. 

You pick up the black marker and press the cool chiseled tip to your skin. 

Perhaps you don't need to know any more than that.